The Road

The hardest part is dreaming. The pigs wallow in the mud and invite you in. You are splashed with mud, and the pigs insist you are one of them. The filth! Is it possible? I look back at the field of muck and indistinguishable lards, with snouts made for pillaging the earth. Squeals of insecurity.  Fat and comfortable, they consume any morsel within rolling distance. They fuck anything that moves. Violent undertones rumble from the sty, they feel resistance. I have nothing against these sloppy orgies, I just don’t fit in. And they can’t make me. Never fight with a pig, you will get dirty. Besides, they like it.

Every which way you are beat, swindled, and bribed. The education system shoves you into a stuffy little box and strangers beat their chests at perceived mockery. You, a dreamer? We will mash you to a pulp. The fear mongers and the beat down, but nothing to fear but fear itself. The dead silence of my road is mortifying, my soul drops at the faintest noise. Among the trees I hear cries for help, they could not handle the pressure. The only rule is to keep moving, fast. Directionless, off to Rome. Cries all around, the pressure cooker screams. It is pure imagination, but the chorus of wails echoes through my skull. They said it can’t be done, but had they tried? Everything is on the line, my skin roasts in proximity to the sun. This is just the beginning. I look towards the endless sea of stars ahead. I am a dreamer.